Why, indeed, should the Left
have all the fun; and even
then, what's ever been fun a-
bout commanding a majority?
It's the thick of a bidding
war amongst our politicians,
to see who can distance one-
self more exquisitely safely
from the pogroms one waged be-
fore. In for a penny are those
who will attend a wedding, now,
unctuously unkneeling (to be
sure); and even the next Clin-
ton has taunted the press for
never letting her embrace mar-
ital equality, by failing to
(Oh, she will be wonderful,
if not precisely priceless.)
We, for our part, are hold-ing out to see who's in for a pound, and can tummy attending the rehearsal dinner. Is the agile post-Cuban poster boy for David Brooks' New America going to sort out his togs in time to claim the toga for the title match? May God bless the child who's got his zone, and a flack for his mobile back.
We didn't ask, you know, for this
quadrennial clatter in the bleaker
mewses of the spoken or the printed
word, much less the lurid illustra-
tions it rides in on. Ours is just
to muddle through, letting the chaps
fall where they may, one by one. It
can't be fun to be so late to the
party, when one believes it's for
oneself. And yet, is this not what
our dynasties keep telling us?
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